Three guys die and meet St. Peter at the gates to heaven — and I promise never again to start a column with a joke like this. Unless highly esteemed Congressman Kevin Yoder (R-Nude Swimming In The Sea of Galilee?) decides to streak through Bethlehem.
Anyway, St. Peter reviews the lives of the three guys and says to the first, “An IQ of 160. A doctor. You saved people. Welcome!” and the gates swing open.
He looks at the second guy and says, “An IQ of 140. Schoolteacher. You were important to so many children. Welcome to heaven.”
St. Peter looks at the third guy and says, “Hmmmm. IQ of 58. Uh … did you get your elk?”
It’s possible, of course, that that joke would offend some of the many elk hunters in our great state. And because I do not wish to be chastised, ridiculed or field dressed, I point out that I am one of them, a kindred spirit, a hunter for some 40 years.
And, I might add, I was a hunter of some distinction, becoming a legend in the big-game community in 1992 when, after listening to the majestic September bugling of a bull elk high in the Flattops Wilderness, I responded by playing a hauntingly sad piece from “Les Miserables” on my clarinet.
The guys I hunt with still talk about it. (They also talk about the time I found some tracks in the woods. I followed the tracks, followed the tracks … and got hit by a train.)
My hunting life began in New England, that first season highlighted by the sighting of a huge whitetail deer buck 450 yards away. I stalked that majestic animal for three hours and finally, just past 11 on a biting cold November morning in Vermont, I steadied my rifle against a fencepost, squeezed the trigger and shot a maple syrup bucket off a tree.
I still today hear the words of my proud father, who had taught me the ways of the woods. He patted me on the shoulder and said in a quiet voice, “Nice shot, Aunt Jemima.”
A hunter was born. There would be many more deer hunts in Vermont (“The Spooning New Hampshire State”) and later in Wisconsin (“The Land North of the Land of Lincoln”).
Hunting seemed over in 1978 when I moved to Los Angeles. But a lifelong friend and hunting partner, who asked to remain anonymous and thus will only be identified as “Rob Bresciani of Boulder,” had moved to Colorado. I found myself flying from L.A. to Denver each fall and our hunting adventures, now targeting elk, continued in Wyoming (“Hello … Is Anybody Here?”).
In 31 years of hunting in Wyoming and Colorado, here now is the grand total of elk I have shot: two.
One of them appeared to be old and sick, judging by the way it walked very slowly and pulled an oxygen tank. The other was more challenging, a five-point bull that made my hands tremble so much that I was barely able to roll down the window before dropping him with what my hunting partners say was the 33rd or 34th shot.
Then, on a snowy day in October four years ago on the edge of the Flattops, a cow elk license in my pocket, two elk walked into a clearing just 40 yards from where I sat. I slowly raised the rifle, got the lead elk in the cross-hairs of my scope, flicked off the safety, and … became a former hunter.
I was 2 miles from the nearest cart path, most it uphill, a certain eight-hour drag, and I was overcome with the thought that pulling the trigger would ruin the day for both of us. The two elk eased into an aspen grove, glanced back and then vanished.
It enjoyed that moment. A lot.
My buddies still hunt. I’ll go to camp with them again in a few weeks. But I now spend those days fishing for trout in our stunning mountains. If you see me, come say “hi.”
I’ll be the guy with the fly rod. And the clarinet.
Rich Tosches, a former Denver Post staff writer, also writes for the Colorado Springs Independent.
